


gut punch like no other

by sakura_aesthetic (orphan_account)



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Smut, abused!Aomine/protective!Kise, protective!Aomine/injured!Kuroko
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 10:05:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14952597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sakura_aesthetic
Summary: Aomine Daiki, bloodthirsty and cracking his knuckles, is on a mission to beat Nash Gold Jr. and the rest of his goonies within an inch of their lives.And who else better to accompany him? None other than Kise Ryōta, with kisses to spare.





	gut punch like no other

 

 ****_i take pliers to my teeth and tear_

_the roots from my gums one by one. i gather_

_them in my hands and in bloodied palms i offer_

_these beautiful bones to anyone willing to look._

_i present them in four gleaming rows of eight._

look, look.

_— lillian olson —_

* * *

They manage to get home handcuff-free. Of course, there’s no telling whether the cops will come knocking in the morning and make arrests, card-out prison sentences wherever seen fit, but for now, everyone has gotten back to Kagami’s place without a hitch—unless the seven overturned dumpsters, three mangled fire-hydrants, and two keyed cars parked outside the club are considered a _hitch_. It’s not as though anyone could help it. The entire team had been (and still remains to be) pissed and raring to go.

Aomine Daiki should really consider himself the luckiest bastard alive though; if it weren’t for his ex-teammates, or Kuroko for the matter, his worthless ass would be spending the night in the slammer, followed by only God knows what. Probably a few years’ worth of time in prison, then parole, then a record. One thing’s for sure, he’d have to kiss his career in basketball goodbye. Aomine doesn’t even want to entertain that thought, especially with it being his third and final year at Tōō Academy. He’s worked too hard to lose out now. One mistake and everything could have been for nothing.

Given the circumstance, he should count his blessings.

But as Teikō’s former team files into Kagami’s apartment, Aomine’s resolution is quickly overridden with absolute rage as an exhausted Kise staggers into the threshold last, all strength and stamina depleted by the weight of a near-unconscious Kuroko in tow. The blonde must be tired, but some remnant of determination has Kise by a firm grip as he hauls Kuroko’s dead weight to the closest bedroom. Aomine trails wordlessly behind the duo, glancing at Akashi in passing. The exchange is silent, but Akashi gets the message and blocks the hallway, keeping anyone else from entering the room without his explicit permission. The Tōō ace is grateful for his ex-captain; the last thing Kuroko needs right now is a crowd. The phantom man never enjoyed being at the center of attention.

Aomine had thought he understood why, but after today, Kuroko’s knack for disappearing took on a whole other level of meaning. Standing out had been the sole reason behind Kuroko’s current condition.

The bluenette is in rough shape, Aomine realizes for the umpteenth time upon entering the bedroom, if his appearance alone is anything to go by. Aomine immediately eyes the purple-black bruise covering Kuroko’s right temple; the blood gushing from his swollen lips; his shallow breaths—Aomine really shouldn’t be staring (it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before), but he can’t bring himself to avert his gaze. Because it’s _Tetsu_ : Aomine’s first and only shadow. Because purple blemishes, gushing wounds, and shaky breaths aren’t a good look for him and leave Aomine weak in the knees.

As if broken face and beaten body aren’t enough to make Aomine’s heart bleed, Kuroko relinquishes a pained gasp when Kise lays him down on the bed. The mattress for fuck’s sake—nothing that soft should hurt him, but it does and steals (or seals, depending on how you’re reading the situation) another piece of Aomine’s resolve. Kise grits his teeth as well, guilt etching itself into the blonde’s usually-relaxed features. He tries to adjust Kuroko so he’s more comfortable, but all his efforts earn him is another one of Kuroko’s sharp, panicked breaths.

“I’m sorry, Kurokocchi,” Kise murmurs, eyes crinkling at the corners. Seeing Kuroko like this is enough to bring the blonde to tears. “I know it hurts.”

“S’okay, Kise-kun… just a little sore.”

Aomine growls. _A little sore, my ass._ This isn’t how things tonight were supposed to go.

If only he’d kept a tighter leash on Kuroko. If only he’d chased after Kagetora the second he realized Kuroko had disappeared. If only he’d gotten there sooner. If only, if only, if only.

None of this would have happened otherwise.

Another muffled but audible whimper from Kuroko makes Aomine’s decision for him: he is going to beat the shit out of Nash Gold Jr., and nobody is going to stop him.

“Aominecchi, please relax,” Kise says, voice close to begging. “I can feel the tension from way over here. It’s going to make Kurokocchi nervous.”

“Like hell I’m gonna keep calm, look at what that bastard did to him.”

“Aominecchi, I—”

“Kise is right, Aomine.”

Before Aomine can react to the new presence in the room, Akashi has a solid grip on his shoulder. Growing up playing streetball, Aomine is accustomed to reading body language, though usually his intuition only comes in handy when on the court. From Akashi’s simple touch, however, Aomine is hit with an aura of complete and utter dominance; from it, the Tōō ace knows it’s Akashi’s imposing way of saying _stand down_. Aomine doesn’t hesitate to shut his mouth; Akashi does not take disobedience lightly, regardless of which Akashi is in control.

“We need to bandage him, Kise. I brought the first aid kit,” Rakuzan’s captain says, sidestepping Aomine to sit beside Kuroko, taking the phantom’s hand in his and examining it. “It’s most regretful that Kuroko thought a punch to the jaw would do him any good,” he says while examining Kuroko’s bloodied knuckles. “As if violence could beat out words. And he used his passing hand, what a shame.”

“You know it was self-defense, right?” Aomine seethes, “he didn’t have a choice.”

“He didn’t have to go after them,” Akashi says evenly, “he could have beat them on the court, like we had all originally planned.”

“As if Tetsu would’ve sat still while those bastards insulted the sport he loves. Akashi, you of all people should know that holding back from a fight isn’t exactly Tetsu’s style.”

Akashi smirks at this but doesn’t respond with words, only actions. Unlatching the first aid kit, the red-head rips open a packet of antiseptic wipes and applies them to the lacerations pooling blood, ignoring Kuroko’s attempts to escape the stinging sensation. Aomine forces his gaze away from the situation—watching Kuroko writhe in agony will only hurt more. And, though the urge to tackle Akashi to the ground is overwhelming, Aomine resists. An infection would be a fate worse than stitches, than bandages, yes, Aomine is well aware of that. That doesn’t mean he can handle the wounded sounds escaping his friend. That doesn’t mean he can live up to Akashi’s expectations of self-control. Kuroko had been a fucking punching bag today, no more, no less. And those fucking bastards had the audacity to beat the sand out of him, to tear him apart at the seams. So, when Aomine had found Kuroko—deflated and mangled and curled in on himself—the world had immediately become _his_ punching bag as nothing would ever be enough to face the ace’s pure and unadulterated fury. Nothing would ever be able to take Aomine’s absolute indignation.

Only now does Aomine decide to let out some steam. Only now, upon counting the number of bruises and scrapes marring Kuroko’s abdomen and face, does he allow himself to vent his frustration. Before he can stop himself, the bedroom wall is busted open, Aomine’s fist landing a blow that catches both Akashi and Kise by surprise.

“Dammit, Kuroko,” Aomine whispers, teeth ground together. “Damn you.” Because fuck, Kuroko shouldn’t have been at that club. He shouldn’t have taken matters into his own hands. He shouldn’t have gone _alone_.

It’s wishful thinking to believe that Akashi would allow him to stay after such a display, so Aomine takes his leave, closing the door on the way out. An apology won’t help anyone now, but peace and quiet, yes, definitely. One less presence in the room—a pissed off one at that—would certainly be of service, too.

Heading back into the living room, he is greeted with wide eyes, but nobody speaks. Aomine takes it as his cue to say something, _anything_ , to reassure the team.

“He’ll be okay. He’s just… Akashi’s just… cleaning him up. Nothing a few painkillers can’t fix,” Aomine lies, hoping they’ll believe him. In the past, he’d been pretty good at keeping secrets, but it’s been years since his last cover-up, and Aomine knows he’s out of practice. One look at Midorima and he knows the lie is far from convincing.

“We all want to know one thing, and one thing only, Aomine,” Midorima says while standing. The rest of the team follows suit, even Murasakibara, who is seen, for the first time, empty-handed.

“Because Kuro-chin wouldn’t care about anything but this.”

Kagami steps forward, eyebrows knit together in concern. Aomine has never seen Seirin’s ace so tense. “Will he be able to play during tomorrow’s game?”

The question takes Aomine by surprise. The _answer_ to that question is even more difficult to comprehend, even though it shouldn’t be; yet, Aomine gapes at the redhead, his mind furiously wrapping itself around what’s being asked of him. To lie? To speak the truth and reveal the severity of the situation?

Under any other circumstance, Aomine would, without hesitation, reply with something along the lines of _of course, dumbass. Why would you even ask such a thing?_ Because for Kuroko, holding the basketball in his hand, rolling the leather against his palm—it means the world to him, if not the entire universe. If that doesn’t mean something, then one would have to consider Kuroko’s pathetic, albeit endearing, love for team play. Teikō’s ex-phantom would be damned before ever missing an opportunity so rare as the game tomorrow: a long-awaited rematch between Jabberwock and Vorpal Swords.

But Aomine knows the scene back in the bedroom hadn’t been a figment of his imagination (as much as he wishes it had been). He knows that Kuroko has never been the type to show weakness unless absolutely necessary; unless the pain was truly unbearable.

And the bruises—the fucking bruises so dark they could be mistaken as tattoo ink—leave Aomine seething once again because how dare anyone hurt his friend, how dare they lay a fucking finger on Kuroko at all. Aomine’s mind has become a fucking maelstrom; his dexterous fingers are twitching for revenge and his usually two-track mind is only processing the repetitive urge to kill, kill, and _kill_.

Before Aomine can lash out at the surrounding crowd in the living room, there is a burst of warmth at his side and he knows it’s Kise, because nobody else in their right mind (except possibly Akashi) would even think to stand within five feet of the streetballer at a time such as this. Aomine knows he must reek of aggression (one look at Kagami drawing back in defeat is enough of an indicator); yet, Kise doesn’t so much as flinch and has the courage (or sheer stupidity) to grip Aomine’s shoulder, his knuckles popping and going white at the intense pressure induced by his fingers. Enough to rival Teppei’s _vice claw_. Enough to sock Aomine in the jaw if the Tōō ace so much as snaps at his teammates.

Kise’s silent but overwhelming control of the situation is enough to recalibrate Aomine’s sense of gravity. He needs to calm the fuck down, if not for himself, then for Kuroko and the rest of his team.

“Kurokocchi is in a lot of pain right now,” Kise says calmly, although his voice trembles in the slightest. Aomine sighs; not only does Kise exhaust his body with his adoption of _perfect copy_ , but also by wearing a brave face when nobody else can. “Akashicchi is with him now and requests that you keep your distance. Seeing how worried you are will make it harder for Kurokocchi to recover for the game tomorrow.”

The team nods, but the worry ceases to disappear from their faces.

“Akashicchi figured you’d be like this,” Kise continues, “which is why he also asked that you spend the night elsewhere. Here,” Aomine hears the jingling of keys, then turns to find Kise tossing them to Midorima. “Akashicchi was kind enough to offer his second apartment. It’s just a few blocks away from here. Take everyone with you and don’t call to check-in. Akashicchi will update us in the morning on Kurokocchi’s condition.”

It takes a few minutes for everyone to abandon the apartment, Kagami being the last as the redhead wanted to lay down some house rules for Akashi. Not that Aomine can blame him; the apartment is his after all. In all honesty, though, he’s surprised by the lack of resistance on Kagami’s end but makes no move to pressure Seirin’s ace to stay behind. Akashi is right: the fewer people, the more Kuroko could recover; henceforth, the greater the chance that he would be able to play tomorrow.

Aomine is also fully aware of one thing. When Akashi had offered his apartment to the team, it wasn’t a suggestion—it had been a direct order. An order for everyone, including the Tōō ace.

_Fuck that._

“Aominecchi, we have to go, too,” Kise whispers, making a move for the door.

“Tch, I know, you damn idiot,” Aomine grunts then stands. “But don’t think for a second that I’m coming with you.”

“Huh? But Akashicchi said—”

“Like I give a damn about Akashi,” Aomine interrupts, “I’m only leaving ‘cause Tetsu needs space and having a hothead breathing down his neck won’t help him get better. That much I get. But you must be fucking crazy if you think I’m gonna endure Akashi’s orgy-slumber party nonsense.”

Kise opens his mouth to retort but doesn’t argue. Instead, the blonde asks, “then what do you plan to do for the next eight hours?”

Aomine knew this was coming. He fucking knew Kise would ask and, somehow, a tiny part of the Tōō ace is relieved that he did. That way, Aomine doesn’t feel half as bad about going to settle the score. Maybe, just maybe, he wants somebody to talk some sense into him because the voice of reason at the back of his mind is screaming, _don’t do it, Aomine Daiki. Don’t you fucking dare._

“I’m gonna beat Nash Gold within an inch of his life. That should easily kill the next eight hours.”

And he waits. For what: Kise to punch some rational thinking into his fucking skull; to tell Aomine to get a grip and stop spewing such vulgar atrocities. The last thing Aomine expects, however, is, “I’ll join you, then.”

Kise is well-versed in the art of improvisation, Aomine admits. But even with his knack for dumbfounding the crowd with his impressive stamina and ability to play copycat, there is next to nothing that Kise can do to surprise Aomine. But this—wanting to tag along to witness a violent (sure to be one-sided) brawl—shocks Aomine to the point of incredulity. And speculation. Violence has never been characteristic of Kise. Of gentle, affectionate, and caring man who would rather talk things out than raise a fist. Yet, here the blonde stands with his hands folded behind his back, putting forth no effort to block him, or talk him down.

“Aren’t you gonna try and stop me, or some shit?” Aomine huffs, eyeing the blonde with confusion. Kise answers back with an equally puzzled expression.

“I want to, but there’s no use in trying.” Kise chuckles while rubbing his neck. “You wouldn’t let me stop you, would you, Aominecchi?”

The blonde’s words, without context, come across as playful banter; however, Aomine is attuned to sleight of hand, is accustomed to tricks of the eye, and immediately picks up on the dangerous undertone of Kise’s voice. It’s a threat nonetheless— _I’m coming or you’re staying put_ —and Aomine really isn’t looking for a fist fight with his own teammate. So, to answer Kise’s question, he nods. And Kise (adept as he may be when putting up a strong front) forces a smile to cover his malaise.

The blonde must be wrestling with the pros and cons of joining Aomine on his little escapade. The Tōō ace can gather just as much from Kise’s sudden uneasiness; at this point in time, Kise must be realizing, _fuck, I have to actually go with him now_ because no way in hell would the blonde allow Aomine to go alone.

Seeing Kise out of his element for once creates a sense of giddiness in Aomine.

It isn’t the first time tonight that Aomine’s blood is racing, but it is, by shock and awe, the first time in a long while that Aomine is _excited_. Maybe he’ll have fun rearranging Nash Gold’s face.

After all, Kise will be there.

And, for whatever reason, the mere thought of having that amber gaze on him leaves Aomine’s nerves catching fire.

 

x

 

They end up at the bar. Not because Aomine leads them there, but rather, because Nash Gold and his posse had abandoned the club long before their arrival. Truth be told, Kise is partially relieved for the club’s vacancy; Aomine had been spared a broken wrist and both teams will be fully operational tomorrow. Well, at least fifty percent operational in Vorpal Swords’ case. If Kuroko wakes up completely revived, the rest of the team catches a few hours’ worth of sleep, and Aomine manages to hold his alcohol, then they’d be fine. Except, even usually-optimistic Kise, knows that’s wishful thinking because one minute Aomine is chugging shots like no tomorrow, and the next, his words are slurring into incomprehensible strings of syllables. Kise orders a glass of ice-cold water to alleviate Aomine’s drunken haze; the Tōō ace gulps it down gratefully.

“Better?” Kise asks, entirely too hopeful.

“Much.”

Kise breathes a little at that and orders another glass.

“I guess it was kinda careless to drag you out for drinks, knowing how alcohol tends to scramble your brain,” Kise says, eyes softening at the sight of Aomine yawning.

Kise admits it: groggy, half-drunk Aomine is kind of cute. By his seventh shot, Aomine’s cold, unapproachable exterior had melted away which, two shots later, had led to this—Kise wondering if he should lean in a little closer, maybe even put a hand on Aomine’s thigh. Because _this_ —touching, getting closer—is what Kise has wanted since coming face-to-face with him back in middle school. And now, maybe he has a chance to take his shot and down it without question: to make Aomine his.

Aomine throws his head back as he guzzles the rest of his water. Kise watches his Adam’s apple bob, counts to three, and composes himself. The last thing Aomine needs right now is some guy—his teammate nonetheless—confessing to him; that would make for an interesting game tomorrow morning. Not tonight, but maybe—

“Mmm, Kise, I’m still pissed off. The water isn’t doing much to help take my mind off things,” Aomine says, interrupting Kise’s train of thought. Aomine raises his empty glass as a signal to the bartender, “I want another shot.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Kise replies, waving the bartender away without taking his eyes off the Tōō ace. “We have a game tomorrow.”

“That’s true, but still—”

“No arguments, Aominecchi. I promised Akashicchi that I would look after you,” Kise says firmly.

Aomine meets Kise’s gaze for the first time since entering the bar, “Eh, what do you mean _look after me_?” Aomine’s nonchalant expression turns sour. “I’m not a kid. Hell, I know I can hold my alcohol better than you. Remember that party during our second year at Teikō?”

Kise nods because he does remember but refrains from opening his mouth. He lets Aomine win this one, mainly for the sake of keeping Aomine calm rather than riling the ace up. But Kise notices how Aomine is hanging his head over his empty glass and how his body slumps forward and it looks, for a split second, as though a piece of Aomine’s facade has cracked. Kise barely recognizes the man sitting next to him.

“I wasn’t going to kill him, you know? Him or any of his goons,” Aomine murmurs, his eyes focused intently on the ice cubes clinking together, “I just wanted to teach those punks a lesson for underestimating us, and for hurting Tetsu. I couldn’t… I just wanted them to pay for what they did.”

Kise sighs. “I know. We all want justice for Kurokocchi because what they did, what they planned to do, was wrong,” the blonde says, then balls his hands into fists. “But we are to blame, too. We should have stopped Kurokocchi before he got the chance to provoke them. We could have stopped him.”

Kise grits his teeth. “We could have protected him, but we didn’t.”

Now, Kise is well aware of the fact that sometimes, what comes out of his mouth can be taken in the wrong way. Chalked up to the number of rejections gone wrong, saying this to his friend doesn’t even strike the blonde as something to mull over; the words just came to him, and there had been no hesitation or careful selection of phrasing to make sure that he didn’t offend Aomine. He just said what needed to be said.

Which is why, when Aomine spits a “fuck this, I’m leaving,” Kise is so surprised that he chokes on his own drink. Before Kise can clear his throat, however, Aomine is standing and slamming his glass down on the counter. From his pocket, the Tōō ace pulls a thick wad of cash from his wallet and tosses it to Kise, “thanks for the drinks, but I don’t feel like sticking around to talk about this.”

“Wait, Aominecchi!” Kise calls after the figure disappearing in the crowd, but knows it’s useless. The blonde stuffs the bills into his shot glass and chases after him, praying to every deity above that he will be able to keep up.

 

x

 

“Let’s head back. It’s too dark to be wandering around the streets by yourself,” Kise complains, the blonde walking in-step five feet behind Aomine. “Plus, we have to sleep at some point so we’re at our best for the game later today.”

“Tch, it’s not like I’m gonna be able to sleep anyway. And I’m not by myself,” Aomine mutters then spares a glance over his shoulder, “I have you, don’t I?”

Kise refuses to entertain any further interpretations of that statement aside from the obvious, but a blush warms his face nonetheless.

“Besides,” Aomine trails off, suddenly brimming with confidence, “nobody is out here. And if somebody were to try and mug me, well, I’d be able to take them down and pin ‘em in two seconds. Just like I would if we were to run into Gold and the rest of his fucking groupies.”

Kise watches in gross fascination as Aomine—strong, casual hands-in-my-pockets, dominating Aomine—slows his pace and starts to sway, his movements mirroring that of a skier, before veering off toward a trash bin. Kise forces his gaze away as Aomine retches into the bin; watching would only result in Kise losing his own stomach, and the last thing the blonde wants to worry about is _two_ sick people as opposed to _one_. Only when Aomine straightens up, body sagging in exhaustion, does the blonde make a move to support the ace’s weight, leading him to the nearest bench so he can sit. Kise collapses into the empty space beside him, panting with fatigue because six-foot-two or not, Aomine still had two inches on him—two inches of dense muscle, and seventeen pounds heavier.

“Let’s rest for a bit,” Kise says once his lungs are back in order, “and then we’ll find a hotel to crash for the night, alright? You can avenge Kurokocchi at the game. Those Jabberwock assholes will get what’s coming to them, don’t worry.”

An audible “yes” is swallowed by the otherwise quiet atmosphere; Kise is content to leave the conversation at that (and plans to do so) until Aomine sits upright, the huge expanse of his tanned back hunched over his knees, gaze intense as he says, “Look, you don’t have to defend my actions earlier. I know that two wrongs don’t make a right. I mean, I grew up with that shit.” Aomine locks his jaw, a grimace akin to frustration and remorse.

“My dad worked away from home. A lot. Like _gone for months at a time_ a lot. I never got to know him. And, to be honest, I didn’t really want to. Not after all the stress he put my mom under, like waiting on money that would never come, or wondering when he would come back, if ever. But then, he did come back. And he beat her. He beat her and I tried to stop him, so he beat me, too.”

From the moment Kise had met Aomine, he’d known he was a fighter to the core. Anyone could tell, really; there was an aura of resilience, of idiotic bravery, that set him apart from his teammates. The way he sprinted up and down the court, treating ten-foot hoops as though they were kiddie baskets. The way he played streetball, the rugged nature of it. Aomine had been molded by trauma, the very essence of his wild and undaunting dribbles had been fabricated by his broken childhood, every part of the ace carved of loss, chiseled by pain, so he could become the most fearless player on the court.

But Kise just wants him to stop talking because Aomine shouldn’t be saying such things. Because Aomine is drunk and doesn’t trust Kise like he does Kuroko and the last thing he wants is for the hangover to hit and for Aomine to vomit words just because they left a bad aftertaste. There are things Kise wants to know about Aomine—everything, in fact—but not like this. Not when Aomine is half-gone, half-wasted, and nursing guilt like it’s a bottle of vodka. Guzzling it, forcing it down. Kise wants him to shut up because, with every word, Aomine breaks apart even more, and Kise is scared because _how do I help him? How do I make the pain go away?_ But deep down, Kise knows that such a feat is impossible. Aomine confirms this notion by saying, “just what kind of sick fuck does that to a kid? To anyone, for the matter? And what does getting hit by my old man make me? A pushover? A waste of space?”

Kise almost interjects, but falls silent at “Tetsu was the only person who knew.” A ghost of a smile crosses Aomine’s face. The sudden ease splayed across the Tōō ace’s lips does nothing to lessen the growing tension coiling in Kise’s stomach. “Tetsu… he was the only person I could trust with a secret like this.”

“I told him everything after my dad left us for good. But that didn’t mean the nightmares went away. There were nights when I’d lay awake watching the bedroom door because I was certain that my dad was standing outside, just waiting to hit me. Heh, you should’ve seen Tetsu’s face on the days after I’d stayed up half the night—he was always so worried.” Aomine’s eyes soften at that before continuing, “after realizing why I wasn’t sleeping, Tetsu said to call him whenever I needed to talk, even if it meant phoning him at two in the morning. He became my two a.m. call, Kise. Tetsu… he protected me the way a shadow defends their light. He always had my back, you know? He always made sure I was okay.”

Aomine’s smile vanishes. With its disappearance, a grim expression remains—the look of a dead man, of a grieving man who’s lost the will to live. Kise wants to reach out and _touch_ , to just hold Aomine and bear the weight of the world crashing down on him, but he waits because Aomine needs to say what he needs to say. And Kise needs to wait and hear what he needs to hear.

“Tetsu was there for me when I needed him and today, I let him down. He got hurt because I couldn’t protect him,” Aomine rasps, his voice gone all hoarse. “I don’t know why I thought I could though. ‘Cause how could I protect anyone else if I couldn’t even stop my old man from hurting my mom, from hurting me?”

A dense, impenetrable silence follows. Kise knows he should say something, but the words don’t find him and he wrings his hands. All the blonde can say is, “I’m sorry,” knowing it will never be enough to make up for lost time and heal Aomine, even though he so desperately wishes it could.

“I am, too.”

 

x

 

After stumbling around downtown for another hour, reserving a hotel room, and collapsing on the large king-sized bed, Kise checks his phone for the time and sighs. It’s three in the morning, and Aomine is still half-drunk. Meaning, in short, that the Tōō ace will be nursing a hangover by breakfast.

Kise considers all of his options, including how to tell Akashi what happened, and how to best take care of Aomine, but his train of thought is rudely interrupted when something heavy whacks him on the head.

“Oi! What the hell?”

Finding the source of his pain, Kise glowers, gaze coming to rest on Aomine’s outstretched arm, “Aominecchi, it isn’t polite to hit peop—”

Kise’s words die off, however, upon seeing the Tōō ace sprawled out on the bed, eyelids half-closed, cheeks flushed, and shirt riding up. It’s impossible to look away, and Aomine’s far too out of it to notice Kise licking his lips, or shifting uncomfortably in his jeans. This is dangerous, Kise realizes. He’s treading on thin ice. Aomine is just a few inches away from him, spacing out and unaware of how irresistible he looks, just asking to be jumped. And fuck, Kise wants him. He’s wanted him for so long.

Kise is barely holding onto his self-control as it is, and reaches for the man, fingers brushing aside bangs, palm cradling cheek, breath ghosting over parted lips.

Until Aomine groans and rolls over, a movement that brings Kise back to the room, the situation, and just how fucked up it would be to take advantage of a grieving man. For Aomine’s shirt bunches up, revealing a scar nestled along the ridge of his hip bone—a once bleeding, once aching lash, given by a belt by the looks of it. Despite already knowing how such a grotesque thing had come into existence, seeing it, really seeing how deeply hurt Aomine had been, Kise can’t help but mourn. This is his teammate, his friend, and somebody had threatened to take him away. At this, the blonde feels a sudden wetness on his cheeks, but doesn’t bother to wipe the tears away because what happened to Aomine, and what happened to Kuroko had been a sick, twisted thing. Someone should acknowledge that pain. Someone should take responsibility. And at the moment, that person would be Kise, who stands from the bed, catches Aomine’s wrists in his grip, and adjusts him so he can better sleep, so he can better rest.

“A-Aominecchi, you really shouldn’t sleep like that,” he whispers, trying to keep his voice from cracking. “You’ll catch a cold.”

Aomine stirs, but doesn’t attempt to twist out of Kise’s iron grip, only, he groans and stares at Kise through half-lidded eyes, muttering a groggy, “K-Kise, what—”

“It’s okay, Aominecchi.” Kise bites his lip, praying that the long night would catch up to Aomine, knocking the man out of his misery. And soon. Because the blonde doesn’t know what to do if Aomine stays awake, all sobered-up, asking questions about Kuroko and wondering why they’re sharing the same bed and how they got into this mess in the first place. It’s the last thing the two of them need right now. Recounting the night’s events to Aomine isn’t bound to be the easiest conversation. Kise swallows thickly, prays for Aomine’s cooperation, then utters quietly. “I’m taking you to bed.”

It doesn’t take long for Kise to tuck in the boneless Tōō ace. Just a few gentle tugs to get the man out of his sweaty shirt and jeans, and another few minutes to situate Aomine under the plush comforter. Aomine is practically putty in Kise’s hands, moving and bending to the blonde’s will, which Kise should be grateful for. Really, because docile Aomine is far easier to manage than resistant Aomine. But Aomine is just so. damn. heavy. and putting him to bed is a monumental task that drains Kise far more than it should, but lugging both Kuroko and Aomine halfway across Tokyo leaves him with little energy to do much else than collapse.

His right leg is the first to give way. The comforter draped haphazardly over the mattress somehow—probably amidst the body shuffle—tangles around Kise’s ankle, successfully tripping him. He closes his eyes, waits for a kiss with the floor, but it never comes.

A kiss with the floor, that is.

A kiss with Aomine though, that’s a different story. For Kise has clumsily toppled into equally-awake and surprised Aomine, who, with lightning quick reflexes, has caught him, their mouths, by nothing more than chance, knocking into one another—a sloppy, accidental kiss if anyone ever saw it. And both Kise and Aomine are seeing it, feeling it. Enjoying it, Kise internally groans, losing himself with every second Aomine’s lips are on his and not pulling away. Because fuck, Aomine isn’t pulling away, isn’t pushing, isn’t fighting _this_ —whatever _this_ is. And Kise’s heart is pounding so hard in his ears that he wouldn’t be able to discern pulse from Aomine telling him to stop. This isn’t something he can stop, neither of them can. Kise doesn’t think he wants to even though he knows this isn’t right. And Aomine is sitting upright, tugging Kise closer so the blonde is settled in his lap, legs spread, face flushed, mouth open. Making out with a teammate, nonetheless a _drunk_ one, hadn’t been a planned thing; therefore, nothing good could come of it. But taste-testing Aomine’s lips is the single greatest thing that Kise has ever experienced and he marvels at how something so good could derive from something so entirely wrong. The Tōō ace, though rough around the edges, has lips so chapped they are smooth, so soft. So _raw_ . And Kise thinks he likes it, the rawness, the tenderness of exposed flesh, and nips at it, wanting more despite knowing the consequences of deepening the kiss rather than ending it; there would be no excuse or rationale for more, but cutting things off now wouldn’t require explanation, or apologies. Continuing this would. _Beginning_ this would.

Except Aomine doesn’t shy away from Kise’s hesitant bite; he encourages him by running his thumb along Kise’s upper lip, ploying the blonde for more—more, like another kiss; more, like exposed teeth designated for scraping and biting; more, like dominance; and more, like control.

The problem is Kise has never done this before. With anyone, let alone Aomine. So for Aomine to just assume that Kise has years’ worth of experience under his belt, for him to just lay back against the pillows and expectantly wait for Kise to decide his next advance, for him to just—

—oh. _Oh._

This may be Kise’s first time. The same cannot be said for Aomine, strong, casual hands-in-my-pockets man. Beautiful, even. Suddenly, Kise’s circadian rhythm is thrown backward six hours and he is in Kagami’s apartment, trudging practically-dead Kuroko to his bed, watching Aomine bust the wall open, and idly worried if the man could even register the pain. A meticulous flex of the fingers had confirmed Kise’s suspicions—his knuckles bleeding and looking slightly out-of-place—but Aomine didn’t seem to give a damn about anything except Kuroko. It’s always been like that: Kuroko safe-keeping Aomine’s insecurities; Aomine protecting Kuroko in earnest.

It’s always been Kuroko—the painful reality Kise must come to accept. Aomine will never be his. Regardless of the drinks, the hour of the night, the needless touches, the accidental kisses. Somebody already owns Aomine, and Kise’s lips claim no ownership to the man underneath them.

It takes every bit of sobriety to relinquish Kise’s hold on Aomine, effectively ending the kiss. Kise, now half-drunk on Aomine, averts his eyes from the situation, and attempts to slip out of Aomine’s lap. He is stopped by the arms wrapped around him and honestly, Kise doesn’t try very hard to break free; being held by Aomine feels like heaven. But then Aomine is nuzzling his face into Kise’s chest, mumbling (for the most part) incoherent words until “you said you were taking me to bed” is heard, and Kise stutters back, “this isn’t what I meant!” before being kissed again, this time, Aomine initiating touch, initiating _more_ , and Kise thinks _this_ must be cloud nine.

Until there is pressure on his thighs, hands trailing upward in torturous fashion before coming to rest at his arousal and Kise, much to his own chagrin, mewls and bucks forward. The blonde’s mind goes blank at the feeling of his cock rutting against Aomine, who leaves nothing to the imagination and jerks his hips upward and against his ass. Aomine is hard, too; Kise thinks he’s just about to lose it, right then and there.

The trouble is whether Aomine has his head in the game. If Aomine is one-hundred percent aware of his surroundings and those glassy eyes are fixed on blonde hair as opposed to blue, amber eyes instead of baby blues. If Aomine, in his headspace, is touching Kise, or touching Kuroko.

They might as well be kissing in the dark. No need for visual feed, just tactile stimuli.

Kise’s heart aches at the thought. No matter how pleasurable, this isn’t right.

Because Kise will never be Kuroko—he isn’t even a close second.

“You’re drunk… I don’t want to take advantage of you, Aominecchi,” he whispers. Dodging another incoming kiss, Kise pushes lightly against Aomine’s chest. “I’m not what you want.”

It’s so hard to say it, to admit that he’s lacking something Kuroko doesn’t. Whether that’s the bluenette’s stoic, but calm composure, his determination, his compassion, Kise just doesn’t have it. He doesn’t have Aomine’s attention. Attention that, if otherwise diverted away from the court for more than a millisecond, Aomine would miss Kuroko’s invisible passes, Kuroko’s transparent movements. Kuroko in general.

Fat chance that Aomine would risk losing more time with Kuroko than he already has. The last time he’d missed Kuroko, it had been just a few hours ago, and consider how that turned out.

Kise ruminates on the fact that Aomine will probably spend the rest of his life trying to make up for his past mistakes, his marginal errors. And this—Kise in Aomine’s lap; Aomine deftly yanking at Kise’s button-up shirt; Kise trying not to give in to Aomine’s agile fingers; Aomine panting for friction and Kise desperate to alleviate him—isn’t exactly doing the Tōō ace any favors. The last thing Kise wants is for Aomine to _regret_ this, regret _wanting_ him, so better quit now before it’s too late.

But then, hands stop fumbling and Aomine’s head collapses into Kise’s shoulder before murmuring, breath hot and heavy, “I’m sober enough to know what I want and when I want it,” and Aomine’s hands slip between them, roughly palming Kise through his jeans.

The unexpected pressure leaves Kise begging for more, and Aomine delivers, fingers toying with the zipper and pulling down, Kise’s cock spilling free and weeping. Not a second is wasted on nerves, on doubt. Before Kise can grow hot with shyness, Aomine moves his hand upward with one languid stroke, the added slickness and glide of the ace’s fingers stealing Kise’s breath in his mouth; so long as Aomine doesn’t stop, Kise has no desire to retrieve them; Aomine can keep the whimpers, the tiny moans once belonging to Kise. He might as well take what he can because at this rate, with Aomine touching him—left hand fisting shaft and right hand gingerly groping ass and probing his clenching hole—Kise isn’t going to last long.

With trembling fingers, Kise tugs at the waistband of Aomine’s pants. The pants are off in the blink of the eye, and all Kise is staring at is miles upon miles of glorious, tanned skin, from his chest to his ankles, muscles rippling under a fine sheen of sweat. He’s beautiful, Kise thinks, and then catches himself staring; Aomine’s all-knowing smirk is confirmation enough that yes, Kise had been gawking. Between his dimples, however, Kise discovers no trace of arrogance or mockery, just amusement. Just _adoration_ and then that smirk is against Kise’s collarbone, trailing kisses from shoulder to earlobe while fingers resume their ministrations down south.

In his ear: “Kise… so beautiful. I love it when you look at me” and “keep looking, keep watching. Mine.”

 _His_ —Kise’s heart stutters and all tension in his navel uncoils. Kise comes loud, comes hard, and clings to Aomine like his life depends on it. Seeing Aomine covered in _him_ , watching Aomine bring the guilty-party (his fingers) to his lips and lick them so tantalizingly slow, Kise thinks he might come again.

“You taste good.”

And the way Aomine says it sounds so honest. A wild blush compensates for the embarrassment Kise feels; Aomine chuckles at the sight, cups his reddening cheeks, and whispers, “I like it. Like _you_.”

The words are a gut punch like no other. If Kise had been standing rather than sprawled over Aomine’s lap, then surely his knees would have buckled because Aomine Daiki just said he _liked_ him. Aomine, who does no harm but plays rough. Aomine, who enjoys a little competition but never receives it. Aomine, who claims nobody is fit enough, fast enough, or smart enough to beat him except himself. Aomine, who doesn’t deem anyone worthy of being his rival, of being his equal, of being his idol. And while the phrasing isn’t exactly the same, Kise is watching Aomine confess through half-lidded gaze, head tilted back, and smile so wide, that he _likes_ him.

“I like you, Kise,” he murmurs again in husky-tone, arm encircling the blonde and pulling him flush against his chest. Aomine’s heart is beating just as fast as Kise’s. “I have for awhile, since Teikō.”

 _Since Teikō?_ _For so many years, he kept this a secret._ _For so many years…_

“Why wait so long… to tell me?”

Kise catches the uncomfortable pinch of Aomine’s eyebrows and knows he’s stumbled over a landmine. “My old man didn’t stand for much back then. I highly doubt bringing home a boyfriend would have been any different.” Aomine squeezes his eyes shut at that, in the process clutching Kise tighter at the waist; the crease between his eyebrows only deepens. “I knew how much he could hurt me. The last thing I wanted was for him to hurt you, too.”

_Which is why Tetsu…_

“I figured telling Tetsu about you would be far less painless,” he exhales shakily. “Once he knew about that, the rest of the story fell into place and I had to tell him about my dad.”

“And after your dad left, you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I didn’t want to risk anything, Kise. I still didn’t know if you liked me that way. I mean, who does?” Under his breath, Aomine mutters, “I hardly like myself most of the time.”

Kise sighs, a small smile spreading across his face. Taking Aomine’s face into his hands, he examines the ace’s eyes, recognizes the unusual wetness as tears and wipes them away with his thumbs. “If it helps, I like you, Aominecchi. I like you a lot. Probably love you, but we don’t have to go that far—”

It’s a blur, but hands latch onto Kise’s nape and pull him forcefully down to hungry lips, Aomine devouring them with an “I love you, too.” Aomine’s still half-drunk, so Kise has a feeling that the Tōō ace doesn’t really mean it, but nonetheless, those three words have an immediate impact on his chest and suddenly, the room doesn’t feel so big, and Aomine doesn’t seem so far away, and all Kise wants is to hold this man, to kiss him at the barrel of his pistol-mouth until cherry blossoms come out. To make Aomine _his_.

“Aominecchi, I need you,” Kise moans while grinding into Aomine.

“I need you, too.”

Then Aomine is undressing them both so touches overlay and it’s completely skin-on-skin, so between the gasps for breath they can soul-search within open mouths, so the heat grows overwhelming but altogether so intoxicating. Kise eventually, after several minutes of fondling and uneasy preparation, finds home (and traction) in Aomine’s messy bedhead, gripping his hair with any remaining strength as he lowers himself down, swallowing Aomine’s length. The ace answers back with a gentle thrust into Kise’s constrictive, velvety walls, earning him a sharp exhale, coaxing him into undulating motion, and, with each deliberate shockwave, they find a rhythm. And soon it’s Aomine pistoning in and out of Kise like no tomorrow, the blonde on his last legs just as his partner finds release, Aomine groaning Kise’s name like it’s a prayer. Kise doesn’t know if he likes it—being on par with a higher power when he’s nothing but a streetballer—but then Aomine is collapsing back against the pillows with Kise ensnared in his strong grip, on the brink of sleep, and whispering in half Japanese and half God, “Ryōta… love you.”

Kise knows he likes— _loves_ —hearing that, and wouldn’t mind hearing it again. Another day, maybe. So for the time being, he is content to curl up against Aomine, kiss one of his many scars (a cigarette burn by the looks of it) and speak in exhausted tongue, “right back at you, Daiki. I’m here. I’m yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> I really love this ship, but holy shite they are so hard to write smut for because both of them would totally dominate in bed. Ugh, anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed reading this. I think I'm getting a little better at writing E-rated stories, but I don't know. Explicit lemons and smut are like my writing kryptonite no matter how much I love reading it. Let me know what you guys thought of this; I'm always open to feedback.


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